Guilt by Association
I get so flattered when people associate me with certain reality shows or fast foods, you know? It makes me feel like I’m really part of something bigger than myself…
“Last weekend I felt really lazy, so I stayed home and watched a ‘Dance Moms’ marathon and thought of you.”
“I saw a Wendy’s commercial, and it reminded me of your Frosty addiction! How are you??”
“Wait — did someone just say that they feel uncomfortable around elephants?” (no) “Oh, because that just sounds like something Carrie would say.”
“Wait — did someone just say that they feel uncomfortable around elephants?” (no) “Oh, because that just sounds like something Carrie would say.”
Mom’s Suitcase Rejects
I’m back from North Carolina! (Did you miss me?) I had a really great weekend, full of reunions with long-lost family members and ill-advised interstate meals — everything that a good road trip should be. Oh, and I got to hang out with my parents before they headed back home.
Which brings me to my favorite part of the weekend.
You know, that part where your mom needs to keep her suitcase under 50 pounds, but buys lots of stuff and ends up leaving you with travel-sized bottles of products you don’t even use regular-sized bottles of?…
Mom’s Suitcase Rejects
- A full package of the new (terrible) Oreo flavor, “Rainbow Sherbet,” because she ‘just wanted to try one!’
- The diffuser attachment to her new hair dryer, but not the actual hair dryer itself
- A gallon-sized Ziploc with half-eaten bags of airplane pretzels
- Speaking of airplanes — a thin, red fleece blanket I can only assume was ‘borrowed’ from the Delta Corporation
- Two hotel-ice-bucket-bags full of travel-sized toiletries, including several un-labeled concoctions with the consistency of sunscreen
- Five bananas in varying stages of decay
image source
A Brother’s Birthday
So, it’s this guy’s birthday today…
So far, the worst thing he’s done to me is push my imaginary friend, ‘Dohdi,’ out of the car door at a stoplight when I was five. I guess I’m willing to forgive him, as long as he admits that it was wrong, and he’ll never do it again.
Happy Birthday Jamie!
Love,
Carrie and Dohdi
A Letter to My Goddaughter, Age 4 Months
My best friend Alicia recently had a beautiful baby girl, who, despite my pleading, was not named ”Ouagadougou” or “Racecar,” but rather “Eleanor.” I guess there’s always next time.
I’d like to start teaching Baby E some important life lessons now, while she’s too young to question anything I say. I feel that these lessons will help her develop into the stoic, rational, and sensible person I myself have become…
A Letter to my Goddaughter, Age 4 Months
My Dearest Eleanor,
There are a lot of life lessons I hope to impart in the coming years, but none as important as this: “beer before liquor, never been sicker” is real.
Be suspicious when a property management company tells you that a particular studio apartment is “basically like a 1-bedroom.” They’re lying. If you had a 1-bedroom, you’d be able to entertain guests comfortably without someone’s shoes touching your pillow.
Making everything from scratch seems neat, but wouldn’t you rather just buy a box of dry pasta from the store?
Any product that claims to be “0% of the fat, but 100% of the flavor” is complete crap. Nothing without fat is as good as its fatty alternative. Well, except for spray butter. That stuff is awesome.
Never, ever go to grad school. Just kidding. Go to grad school, then question why you chose that particular field of study, then think longingly about all the other ways you could have spent $100,000, then go to law school.
Oral health is extremely important. But ignore the insurance company when they tell you that your plan doesn’t include dental. It does. They just want you to spend an extra $11 per pay period on additional dental coverage that you’ll never need — unless you eat a lot of Laughy Taffy. Or Sour Patch Kids. Oooo, or Jolly Ranchers. Ok fine, buy the extra $11 worth of dental.
Some people just fundamentally do not know how to share a sidewalk, and no amount of glaring or exasperated sighing will change that.
Generic ‘Diet Cola” is a busted double of Diet Coke. And generic earbuds will fall apart after, like, 10 uses. But generic Advil? Every bit as good as real Advil.
When your birthday falls on a Saturday, it can feel like a lot of pressure. So, embrace it by forcing everyone to go to that learn-to-line-dance class you’ve been wanting to try.
If the cable repair person arrives four hours late for your scheduled appointment, don’t take your anger out on him/her. Instead, call the cable company’s 1-800 number and threaten to switch to their ‘competitor’ without naming who that particular ‘competitor’ is, even if there is no ‘competitor’ in your area. Just sound confident and forceful, and demand a plan that is $20 less, before taxes. It will never work, but you’ll feel better knowing you tried.
Love Always,
Aunt Carrie
Photo Essay: Things You’ll Find at a Florida Flea Market
Our world is full of beautiful imagery, and this week reminded me that inspiration can truly be found in the most unlikely of places. In that spirit, I present my very first photo essay, taken while visiting my parents in Florida. I hope you enjoy these spectacular images, which I think you’ll agree are near National Geographic caliber…
Photo Essay: Things You’ll Find at a Florida Flea Market
1. Beautiful Home Decor
2. Elegant Patio Accessories
3. Dental Equipment
4. Sophisticated Ladies’ Apparel
5. Handsome Gentlemen’s Apparel
6. Specially-Designed Restrooms for ‘Large Ladies’
7. My Dad, who can next be seen on the new A&E series, Flea Market Hoarders
Reflections on 98 Years
My grandmother passed away on Saturday, December 17, 2011. She was 98 years old, which means that she was also: one Great Depression, two World Wars, and 17 U.S. Presidents old. Below is something I wrote for, about, and because of her.
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Reflections on 98 Years
I’m not sure that my grandmother would call herself a ‘feminist,’ but she would at least hear you out. Her favorite expression is “it takes all sorts,” which is how she explains everything from Michelle Bachmann’s presidential candidacy to the advent of reality television. She enjoys talking about history, and she celebrated her 98thbirthday last September.
My grandmother’s first boss signed his name with an ‘X,’ which wasn’t to save time, or distinguish himself from everyone else. It was because he was illiterate.
This was 1930: my grandmother was 17 years old, a recent graduate of Iowa State Teacher’s College, and she had just landed her first job as a country school teacher. Her favorite part about that first job, the one with the illiterate boss, was that she was in charge. To most people, this would seem like a recipe for disaster – a one-room prairie school, a young inexperienced teacher, and a classroom full of students ages 5 to 18 – but she enjoyed the challenge.
It takes all sorts.
A point of pride for my grandmother is that her parents raised eight healthy, hard-working children to adulthood during the Great Depression.
A point of pride for me is that the chain that led me to become a third-generation-college-graduate began with a woman. I have my grandmother’s college diploma on display in my apartment, something she laughed about when I told her.
Esther Greiman met Earl Schuettpelz while he was working as a hired hand on her family’s farm in Northern Iowa. He had an eighth-grade-education, a German-Midwestern upbringing, and he took her on her first date to a hayride sponsored by the local Lutheran church. I found a photo from the hayride in her old scrapbook, dated: 1931, captioned: “Ain’t we got fun!” I can’t really see my face in hers, but I can see my sarcasm.
Esther and Earl Schuettpelz moved to Eastern Iowa after they got married, she continued teaching, and he began his career as a welder. My dad was a year younger than everyone else in his class, because my grandmother couldn’t wait another year to get back to work.
Several evenings per week after work, my grandmother would tutor adults at no charge. One was a 20-year-old, mentally impaired man who the local school had barred from admission because of his disability. He was illiterate; she taught him to read. My dad doesn’t have fond memories of his mother’s home cooking, but he does remember being the first family in his neighborhood to make pizza from a mix.
I was never one of those kids who loved hearing old stories, but I suppose that’s not uncommon for someone growing up with easy access to 100+ channels of television, video games, and, eventually, the Internet. It was only recently that I had that same moment of silent regret that I bet a lot of people do, when we realize all those years with a now-elderly family member could have been spent differently. I could have been writing down everything my grandmother said, cataloguing her beautifully simple stories, hoarding the verbal artifacts of a bygone era. Now, when I go to visit her in her assisted living community, I feel like I’m overwhelming her with questions. I bring her ‘old-looking-stuff’ that I found in her house and ask her about its ‘story.’ This sudden onset of interest entertains but also confuses her, and the answer is almost always that this dish, or this frame, or this lantern, or this pitcher was something they ‘just always had.’
One time, though, was different.
One time, after several minutes of patient prodding, I finally got it out of her that ‘this pitcher’ had belonged to my great-great-grandmother, brought over from Germany when she immigrated to rural South Dakota. Where, together with her husband, she built a sod-house out of prairie grass and mud. Where, for 60 years, she withstood harsh Dakotan winters and scorching Dakotan summers. Where, despite losing several babies to inadequate food and fast-spreading disease, she nevertheless managed to raise ten children to adulthood.
“Wow, that is really neat,” was all I could muster, as I now, more delicately, held up the chipped, robin-egg-blue, ceramic relic.
“Yes, my grandmother was an amazing woman,” my grandmother quietly said.
Mine too.
